


Near to Us, Once More

by Regency



Series: A Merry Little Christmas [2]
Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe, Berena Advent 2018, Christmas, F/F, Meet the Family, Meet-Cute, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 08:46:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16950783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regency/pseuds/Regency
Summary: Day 9: Christmas with AdrienneWhen Adrienne injures herself preparing Christmas dinner, Serena isn't expecting a beautiful stranger to be making the house call.





	Near to Us, Once More

**Author's Note:**

> Berena Advent, Day 9: Christmas with Adrienne
> 
> This is longer than I planned for so I'm just going to give it its own space. Hope you enjoy!

Serena is on the verge of depleting her limited well of patience when there’s a knock at the front door. It doesn’t sound like the first from the force of it.  Which reminds her—must sort out the doorbell; it went out the month before. One more item added to the list of appliances Serena will have to see repaired in the New Year.

“Can I help you?” The blonde on her doorstep isn’t dressed like a caroler, having opted for a dusky pink overcoat and a grey knit cap that almost entirely obscures her mop of blonde curls and deep brown eyes. She carries a medical bag instead of the folio of music Serena’s grown accustomed to seeing from the usual carolers.  None of them look like this; Serena would remember a face like this woman’s, composed of fine cheekbones, thin lips, and a long, delicate nose.

“Hello, I’m Bernie Wolfe—Dr. Bernie Wolfe—an associate of Dr. Boecker. He sent me to check in on Adrienne McKinnie.” To say nothing of that voice.

Serena raises her chin in skeptical appraisal.  “House calls are fairly uncommon of Dr. Boecker, least of all sending an associate.”  Anyone might be skeptical of someone out of a dream delivering themselves to one’s door for Christmas. Not that Serena has much opportunity to dream, or sleep, anymore.

 Bernie meets Serena’s inquiry with a weary shrug, displacing the smattering of snow that’s settled on her coat sleeves. “She was meant to be seen in the office today but in the holiday rush, she was shoved off the schedule. I was told you have some concerns. You are Serena Campbell, aren’t you? Mrs. McKinnie’s daughter?”  Serena brushes aside her meandering thoughts to usher the visiting doctor inside out of the cold.

“I am.  Please, come in.” The snow flurry that’s threatened all day is beginning to coat the ground in earnest. She’d like to get a second opinion on her mother’s injury before it gets too late. It isn’t as though her mother will take her diagnosis as gospel as it stands.

Bernie removes her cap and scarf, and shakes out of her hair, not unlike a dog fresh from the bath.  Serena finds the comparison charming in spite of herself. They exchange pleasantries while Serena hangs Bernie’s outer things from the pegs on the wall and directs her where to leave her boots to avoid tracking slush in the house.

“I hope everything’s all right with the good doctor. It isn’t like him to neglect his regular patients.”

“It isn’t usually, but so far he’s out of his depth handling his increased case load, and with Dr. Miranda off on maternity leave, they’re short handed. I’ve agreed to fill the gap in the meantime.”  Bernie clutches the strap of her medical bag and follows Serena through the foyer in socked feet.  She’s taller than Serena by an inch or two, her erect posture shouting authority in the same breath it whispers unobtrusive.

“What’s your speciality, if you don’t mind me asking?”  Serena has the nagging feeling she’s heard of Bernie somewhere. The name isn’t exactly common, but then Serena follows so many publications and speaks to so many physicians in a given year, she needs the extra hint.

“Trauma medicine. I was a front-line medic in RAMC.”  Serena halts so suddenly Bernie almost collides with her back and would have were it not for some impressive reflexes and a pair of strong hands that catch her shoulders. “All right?”

Serena turns on a dime. Synapses fire in her brain like friendly fire.  “Fine. Sorry, you’re Bernie Wolfe.”

The other woman’s eyes crinkle prettily beneath her fringe, and Serena knows there’s a joke at her expense going on back there.  “I thought we’d established that.”

“No, I mean, you’re Bernie Wolfe, one of the foremost front-line trauma surgeons in the country.”

“Ah.” Bernie jams her hands in her jean pockets.  “You’ve heard of me.”

“I have.” Serena folds her arms in front of her.  “What on earth are you doing making house calls for a GP?”

Bernie gives her head a noncommittal shake. “It’s a living.”

“You served in Her Majesty’s Army in multiple conflicts, saved countless lives. I’ve lost count of how many of your maneuvers I’ve employed in theater right here in Holby.”

Bernie swallows, her pale throat bobbing as she looks askance.  “Always a pleasure to meet an admirer, I suppose.”

“The impossible things you’ve done…surely general practice is a step down from that.”

Bernie sets her impossibly dark eyes on Serena full of sights seen and experiences survived Serena can scarcely conceive.  “I got blown up in Afghanistan and broke my neck. The way I see it, even walking again is a step in the right direction.”

“I see.”  That puts her in place, reminds her that Bernie’s here at Serena’s request completing a favor that can wait on one of the coldest nights of the year.  _A favor I’ve repaid by subjecting her to an unsolicited interrogation._   Serena winces upon recognizing her own impulsive nature on display.

Bernie grimaces.  “I apologize if that was brusque. You aren’t the first person to question my qualifications since I returned to work.”  Serena raises her hands. She wants to make peace far more than war.

“That will be the last time I do. I know how that gets old. Right this way.” Serena leads Bernie through to the kitchen and then down a short hallway to a bedroom at the rear of the main level. There’s some privacy there, per Adrienne’s wishes. The door is snug shut.  Serena represses a sigh and knocks.  “Mum, there’s someone here to see you.”

“I’m not interested in any carolers, Serena. You know how they vex me.”

“It’s not carolers, it’s the doctor. Dr. Boecker’s sent an associate of his to see to your head.”  Her mother had slipped and fallen while preparing the turkey gravy with Jason earlier in the day.  Serena doubts she’s ever been as frightened as when she found her mother and nephew huddled on the kitchen floor covered in Adrienne’s blood.

“I said I was fine,” her mother insists, pigheaded to the last. Serena curls her hands into fists.  Getting angry won’t help, she knows it won’t help; that doesn’t quell the impulse to shout.

“Maybe you are, but it would give me some peace of mind if you’d let her look at you.”

“Aren’t you meant to be a doctor, Serena? Why can’t you examine me?”  Serena favors Bernie with an apologetic glance. It’s that bit more shameful, somehow, to be found wanting in front of a fellow surgeon.  Bernie’s answering smile is simultaneously sympathetic and rueful.

“Because I can’t, Mum. You know that. I’m not objective. It’s for the best that someone else examines you, all right? Can you please let us in?”

Adrienne shuffles to the door to flip the lock and shuffles away without waiting to see them inside.  She’s changed from her earlier attire, a linen dress ruined with bright and browning splotches of blood along the neckline and hem, exchanging it for an equally elegant twinset and trousers.  Were it not for the bruising goose egg on her forehead and the neat dressing Serena applied, she could be mistaken for a hostess entertaining a pair of exceptionally undesirable houseguests.  Serena gestures for Bernie to take the lead.

“Good evening, Mrs. McKinnie. I’m Bernie, I’ll be giving you a onceover tonight, if that’s all right with you.”

“If you must.” Adrienne sits herself down on the edge of her bed, ankles primly crossed.  “Let’s get this over with.”

“I’ll make it quick.  Just let me clean my hands.”  Serena retrieves a pump bottle of disinfectant from Adrienne’s vanity before Bernie can produce her own from her medical bag. Bernie thanks her absently, attention already turned to her truculent patient.  Serena, embarrassed by her mother’s insistence on being hostile to all but the most deferent medical professionals, is almost driven to apologies.  Bernie Wolfe is someone she wants to impress, heaven knows why.

“Ms. Campbell, I think Adrienne and I can handle it from here, if you don’t mind?”  Serena knows a dismissal when she hears one.

“Of course, I’ll be in the kitchen. You remember how to get back?”

“I do.”  Bernie pulls up a footstool and sits to begin her examination.  “Mrs. McKinnie, would you mind telling me what seems to be the problem?”

Serena hovers outside the door, unable to make herself leave until she knows her mother’s in safe hands.

Adrienne groans in despair.  “I already told Dr. Boecker’s nurse what happened when I called.”  Serena had been the one to call, to relay in dispassionate language what had occurred while Elinor comforted her cousin and Serena kept pressure on Adrienne’s wound.  The tang of adrenalin remains an acrid sense memory grown stale on Serena’s palate.

“I understand that,” replies Bernie, patient and kind in the face of Adrienne’s bluff bravado, “but it would help me to assess your condition if you could repeat the details for me, just in case something was left off.”

Serena forces her feet to carry her away to the kitchen. It’s obvious Bernie can handle her mother. In all probability can do so even better than she can, having put more insubordinate soldiers in their places.  Bully for her.  Serena increasingly finds she can’t handle the older woman at all.

By the time Bernie recalls Serena to the bedroom, something like half an hour has elapsed, all of which Serena’s filled mixing and chopping and mincing, ears perked for the sound of Adrienne’s unpredictable temper flaring or Bernie’s patience wearing threadbare under the onslaught. Neither sound has reached her and the nerves she suffers for waiting would make a more easily flustered women twitch.

The room is in good order. Bernie’s already cleared away whatever detritus she’s used in her examination. Serena’s white dressing has been replaced by a series of dissolving sutures, five of them or so, all neat in a line.

“I’ve examined your mother, but I’d like to compare notes with you on her recent behavior before we get into my diagnosis, if you don’t mind.” They both politely disregard Adrienne’s muttering about her behavior being perfectly reasonable. Serena sits in the Queen Anne chair at her mother’s bedside and takes the older woman’s cool, dry hand.

“Where would you like to start?” Serena asks.

Bernie flips to a new page in her spiral notebook.  “Anywhere is fine.”

Serena reviews her mental checklist of her mother’s deteriorating behavior. How much qualifies as a symptom versus being sheer bloody-mindedness she can only a guess.

“For one thing, she refuses to use her walking stick.”

Adrienne rips her hands away, leaving Serena grasping at air.  “It makes me look doddering. I’m nothing of the sort.”  Bernie is quick to soothe her.

“I’m sure nobody would mistake you for doddering, Mrs. McKinnie. But it’s for your own safety. You were lucky you fell where you did; imagine if you’d been caught out on an icy sidewalk. You could have been injured much worse.”

“That’s what my daughter tells me, and I told her I would have used the blasted stick out of doors if I had to. I shouldn’t need a cane to navigate my own house.” Serena holds back a flinch.  It’s obvious to her that Adrienne often forgets where she is.  Her home and Adrienne’s aren’t anything alike.

“I understand that, Mum. I just want what’s best for you.”

“And shouldn’t I be able to decide that?”

“I wish you would!” Serena exclaims, at the end of her tether and coming unwound. “I just wish you would listen when I try to help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You need somebody’s, and I’m what you have.” Serena gets up to leave for fear she’ll say something she can’t take back or scream. “If you’ll both excuse me, I need to check on the pudding.”

Serena returns to the kitchen where Elinor and Jason are raiding the ingredients for the spotted dick Serena hasn’t actually begun preparing yet. She dismisses them without a word lest she take all her impotent rage at her mother’s failing health out on them and their habitual disregard for her efforts to keep this family afloat.

She is vigorously hand-mixing the currants and suet with her flour, sugar, and baking powder when the door to the kitchen swings open behind her.  Serena doesn’t know who exactly is joining her but figures an apology is probably in order regardless.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” Bernie.  Serena feels her shame double.  Bad enough that her family should have to see her on edge, but a stranger? A woman like Bernie Wolfe who seems to sail through Serena’s stumbling and Adrienne’s churlishness without so much as breaking a sweat. That makes it all the worse. “Need a hand?”

“Are you any good with a zester?”

“I can use a bone saw, how hard can it be?”

“Not a bone saw. Just there. We need one lemon’s worth of zest. You can put it in this bowl.”

“I can do that.” 

They work in companionable silence with Serena finishing up her dough and then going to grease the basin as Bernie does her bit.

“She’ll be all right, your mother. A minor concussion. She didn’t lose consciousness by either account. The blood loss was typical of head wounds. She’s surly because, well.”

“Because she’s a surly old goat. Yes, that’s catching in this family.” Serena puts her back to the counter. “I’m sorry I stormed out like that. I’m usually more level-headed around my colleagues.”

“This isn’t a work setting, this is your home, and that wasn’t just any patient; some emotional extremes are expected.” Bernie passes Serena the ceramic bowl of bright yellow zest she’s harvested.  “I thought you acquitted yourself well under the circumstances.”

Serena scoffs. “Now I know you’re being kind.” She combines the zest with her finished dough and then adds milk. Bernie stands as her quiet observer while she carries out the remaining steps required to get the pudding going on the hob. She’s setting the timer for an hour before Bernie speaks again.

“Stubborn mother plus stubborn daughter is an unsolvable equation. I should know.”

Serena tutts at herself. She’s accustomed to solving the unsolvable; it’s what makes her an excellent surgeon and an outstanding administrator.

“I’m not trying to micromanage her; I know it may seem that way. I nearly lost her a couple of years ago and as difficult a woman as she is, I want her to live as long as she can. The problem is, what I think are common sense measures to keep her alive offend her already stifled independent spirit.  I cannot win.”

“She probably appreciates it under the bluster.”

“Do you actually believe that?”

Bernie purses her lips.  “Not especially, but it seemed like the right thing to say.”

Serena laughs. She’ll take the painful truth over a comforting platitude any day.

“Mum, how long till dinner?” shouts Elinor from another room. Had Serena any energy left to be utterly mortified she might manage it now.

“I swear she was raised with basic manners. She must have left them at university.”

“You’ll find out when you walk in here and ask me properly,” she yells back.  The high ground necessitates far more energy than she’s got to spare. Her mother will live, her children will eat. Good enough.

“You care for all your family here?”

“That’s how it’s worked out. Coffee,” she offers of the carafe brewing strong and hot on the counter.

“Please.” Bernie takes hers black and sweet with gratitude.  Serena basks in the lull of sharing a quiet kitchen with a friend.  She supposes they might become friends if Serena hasn’t managed to frighten her off by being so very much…herself.  “The sandwich generation meets no relief,” she remarks as if to explain.  _We’re all a shambles, myself included. You don’t mind, do you?_ Somehow, people always seem to mind.

Bernie replies, her expression still one of tender sympathy Serena could drown in, “I suppose it doesn’t. I haven’t any experience of my own to fall back on, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?”  Serena leans on the counter, more than happy to shift the focus to Bernie.  “Speaking of, what on earth are you doing making house calls on Christmas?  Shouldn’t you be kissing some lucky person under the mistletoe or painting the town red?”

Bernie laughs a bit, somewhat sadly, as she regards the depths of her coffee.  “Nothing like that in the cards for me, unfortunately.  As I see it, anything’s better than sitting at home drinking my weight in whiskey.”

“Surely someone must be missing you. You seem the type someone would miss.” Bernie flicks an uncertain look toward Serena, which Serena takes her as cue to bustle around the kitchen to clear up mess and hide her astonishment at her own brazenness.

“If they are, they’re being very quiet about it. Haven’t received so much as a text that wasn’t work related in days.” Melancholy seeps into what was in all probability meant to be an innocuous statement, and yet all Serena hears is a recitation of her own isolation.  Bernie doesn’t have anybody to call her own.  It isn’t fair.

“You should stay.”

Bernie tilts her head quizzically, and it occurs to Serena she really did say it. This isn’t the anxious recounting of a botched conversation that catches her on the border between waking and sleep. She said that.

She stands by it.

“We have room at the dinner table and we’ve bought more than enough Christmas crackers. There’ll be carol singing, if you can stand it. My mother and daughter can carry a tune whereas I couldn’t find one with directions. But I can cook and my drinks collection is by far the best you’ll find outside a four-star hotel bar. You could stay.”

“I don’t know if that would be appropriate, and I wouldn’t like to overstep.”  Serena doesn’t quite believe her, can’t judge if it’s her own eagerness clouding her perception or that Bernie puts her in the mind of a dog without a home. Whichever the case may be, Serena wants to take her in. Keep her even, if she’ll stay.

“Is it overstepping if you’re invited? You aren’t my doctor and after tonight you’re unlikely to treat my mother again. Say you’ll stay.”

* * *

 

Serena's expectant expression does a number on Bernie’s insides. She wants to blame the coffee but isn’t sure she can.  Bernie thinks of her drab little one-bedroom and the Doctor Who Christmas special reruns waiting to be watched ad nauseam, more Cameron’s chosen diversion than hers and only a painful reminder without him.  Serena, on the other hand, wants her to stick around, is practically laying down the red carpet in the hope she will. How can she refuse?

 “All right, I’ll stay.”

“Wonderful!” Serena claps and Bernie smiles, happy to have pleased this woman she’s only just met.  “Ah,” Serena says, raising a finger that dares Bernie to object, “if you’re going to be spending the evening among family, you’ll have to call me Serena.”

“I can do that, but only if you call me Bernie.”

“Bernie, I can do.”

Serena pats her forearm as if she does so to everyone, to Bernie, and dashes away in pursuit of the others. Bernie’s skin tingles there for seconds after Serena’s left her alone, and Bernie recognizes the sensation for what it is. The tender caress of infatuation.

Serena unearths her daughter and nephew where they’ve retired to play a shockingly chummy game of scrabble beside the tinsel-strewn tree. Elinor complains at being interrupted when she swears she’s winning; Jason admits he was bored anyway.

“Come, dinner’s on.”

“I thought the turkey was burned. I don’t enjoy burned turkey, Auntie Serena. It’s bitter and bitter chicken is what we had for Christmas dinner last year.” The turkey had overcooked just a little while they were dealing with Adrienne’s fall; it was still edible. She hoped it was still edible.

Bernie laughs from the entryway where’s she waiting to be introduced to the youngest members of the household.  Serena is sure to be flushing in mortification at the kids’ behavior.  _Like herding cats_ , Bernie knows from her own two.  Best to ignore it, she decides. 

“It wasn’t that bad, Jason,” she hurries to assure him, for Bernie’s sake and to save her blushes.

“Yes,” he says, placid as still water and solemn as the grave, “it was.”

“He’s right, Mum. You can’t cook.”

“I _can_ cook, I can’t cook _turkey._ Which is why it’s lucky your grandmother handled the turkey, isn’t it?” She leads them out into the foyer to meet Bernie. “Now, introductions.  Bernie, this is my nephew Jason and my daughter Elinor.  Elinor, Jason, this is Bernie Wolfe, a colleague of Dr. Boecker. She was kind enough to take time out of her Christmas to check up on your grandmother after her fall. She’ll be joining us for dinner.” Despite the lack of family resemblance, Elinor and Jason level identical questioning glances in her direction. Say hello,” she urges them in a maternal note so universally coaching Bernie’s posture straightens a couple of degrees.

“Hello, Dr. Bernie,” greets Jason. “Thank you for looking after my grandmother.”

“Hello, Jason.” Bernie doesn’t offer a handshake when Jason doesn’t. Serena breathes easy. One disaster averted.  Elinor crosses her arms and continues to await further explanation until she sees it isn’t forthcoming.

“What’s this all about? Since when do you invite randoms to Christmas dinner?”  Serena bristles on Bernie’s behalf.

“Bernie isn’t a ‘random,’ Elinor. She’s a friend of the family.”

“Since when?”

“Since today. Is that a problem?” A silent battle of wills ensues that leaves Jason staring off into the distance and Bernie shifting from one foot to the other, wondering if it’s too late to politely decline Serena’s generous offer.  She’s caused enough strife in her own family not to want a repeat experience anyplace else.

Elinor growls, “Fine!” and stalks of toward the dining room where she will contribute nothing to setting the table or passing round the food, Serena knows.

“That went well,” Serena chirps brightly despite seeming to feel anything but.  “Have some mulled wine?”

Bernie questions what holiday horror movie she’s wandered into but is too polite to ask outright. “Sure.”

Serena ushers Bernie to a seat at the dining room table where Elinor is fuming on her mobile and disappears into the kitchen with her nephew in tow. There is the smell of minutely overdone turkey hanging on the air, but as Bernie sees it beggars can’t be choosers, and this already has the ready meal she planned to indulge in at home beat for holiday cheer.

“I’m not attempting to horn-in on your family dinner. I’ll be leaving as soon as we’re done here. Your mum’s a hard woman to refuse.”

“People manage.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You know she fancies you?”

“What do you mean?”

“All the words I used were in English; I’m sure you understood me.”

Bernie is suddenly grateful that Charlotte’s rebellious teen years had more to do with procuring unauthorized body piercings than mouthing off at every opportunity.  “Your mother and I just met.”

“It doesn’t take her long to take a shine to someone, and apparently, she’s taken a shine to you.  Go figure.”

“Do we have an issue?”

“I don’t know, do we?”

Bernie narrows her eyes.  Adrienne’s acid tongue appears to be a hereditary trait.  She pities these women’s enemies; they aren’t in with a fraction of a chance.

Serena returns from the kitchen carrying Bernie’s mulled wine and turns the tumbler over with a lingering hand on Bernie’s shoulder. “Drink up,” she says, and heat prickles at the back of Bernie’s neck when their gazes lock and hold.  Serena has the most arresting eyes; they shine, lovely, deep, and dark. Bernie might fancy her a touch as well.

Elinor snorts. “Predictable.”  When they turn to her, she’s still intent on her phone.  Serena looks uncertainly between them.

“Is everything all right in here?”

“Fine,” Bernie says when Elinor doesn’t deign to respond.  “Just getting to know one another.”

“I’ll leave that to you two, thanks.” Elinor flips her phone over, screen down. “Food done?”

“It’s done. Get your grandmother.”

“Right-o.” The young woman bounds off to do as bid.

“I apologize for whatever she’s said or done to offend. I wish I could say she isn’t usually like that, but that would be a lie.”

“Children can be difficult.”

“At any age.” Her hand’s slid down Bernie’s shoulder to rest just below the neckline of her shirt. Her body heat is seeping through the unseasonably thin fabric to Bernie’s sensitive skin. Bernie thinks beyond reason her touch will leave a mark. “Help me bring the dishes out?”

“My pleasure.”  Bernie is disappointed and relieved when Serena takes her hand away. Infatuation. Desire. She welcomes both like old friends.

* * *

 

Bernie is carrying a somewhat overly crisp bird on a platter when she spots her patient being guided into her chair by her grandchildren. She’s been seated at the end of the table opposite from where Serena will be sitting, Bernie thinks, by design.

“You’re still here,” Adrienne observes once Bernie’s arranged the turkey safely at the center of the dinner table.

“I am. Your daughter was kind enough to invite me to stay for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Why should it matter if I mind? It’s not like anybody _cares_ about my opinion. Ask that one.” She gestures toward Serena who shuts her eyes and begins counting backward from five.  Bernie is watching her sympathetically when her eyes open again.

“Let’s not do this now. Let’s just eat like a family for one night.” She brushes Bernie’s wrist to point her to a seat to her left. She wants Bernie close for reasons unknown. Their fingertips graze and a frisson of something almost electric passes between them, dancing along their respective nerves, conducted skin to skin.

“You’ve ruined the turkey.” Serena curls her hand back to herself, to the safe space at the back of her neck where a flash of heat is threatening to tell all.

“I was treating you, forgive me if I prioritized human life—your life—over next week’s leftovers.”

“Aren’t doctors capable of multitasking?  Dr. Wolfe can.”

Serena takes deep, even breaths to keep calm. She knows what her mother is doing, what she always does, weaponizes whatever Serena prizes so that even in possessing it, it’s never quite enough.  She won’t be compared to Bernie and found wanting. She refuses.

“Bernie is world-class trauma surgeon. There are a great many things she can accomplish with ease that I would need to work at.”

“Not much,” Bernie dissents.  “Becoming a surgeon is no mean feat in and of itself. Making a career out of it requires some kind of intelligence and persistence, and not a little delegation. I can’t say I’ve mastered delegation at all.”

Serena sends her a silent look of gratitude that Bernie answers with a flicker of the eyelid that might be a wink.  She can’t remember the last time anybody had her back.

Adrienne accepts Bernie rebuttal without argument and after Jason carefully slices their bird (fully cooked, at the very least!), they all tuck in.  Bernie is quiet by nature, polite though, and funny when she can be drawn out of her shell.  She and Serena are equally matched in sarcasm, and Serena feels sure if she plays her cards right, she could get Bernie to go out with her for drinks without the familial chaperones. Another female consultant of a similar age, also divorced, and a mother of two; she’s perfect.  Serena smiles between bites of Yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes.  Not even her mother’s claims of too much nutmeg in the stuffing can upset the simple joy of meeting a kindred spirit in her own home, on Christmas of all days.

When she smiles, Bernie smiles back.  Perhaps Serena’s not alone in that. It’s good not to be alone.

* * *

 

The after-dinner festivities are relatively brief, possibly in deference to Adrienne’s injuries (which Bernie has checked a second time and seem to faring well) or even Bernie’s own intrusive presence in the house.  Elinor and Adrienne perform a couple of noteworthy Christmas standards while playing together on the piano. Serena doesn’t try to sing, instead watching her daughter and mother interact with a wistfulness that makes something clench, fist-like, behind Bernie’s sternum. Coming home between tours had been left her feeling much the same, a perpetual outsider in a family where she was meant to belong.

Serena and Jason invite Bernie to share in their annual perusal of the late George McKinnie’s record collection.  Bernie might not be terribly up-to-date on pop culture, but there are dozens of LPs among the hundreds filling Serena’s recessed shelves that she remembers her parents playing at home growing up.

Bernie flips over That’ll Be the Day, a Buddy Holly LP and reads of the track listing.  “ ‘Don’t Come Back Knockin’’ was my father’s favorite song. I swear he listened to it every day of his life until he passed away. I haven’t thought about that in years.”

“My father was a fan, though he preferred ‘You Are My One Desire.’ My parents used to dance to it when I was little girl. They’d wait till I was meant to be asleep and dance in the kitchen while the dishes dried.”

“That’s sweet.”

“I used to think so.”  Serena’s lips quirk out of nowhere and Bernie knows there’s mischief soon to be at hand.  “Do you dance, Bernie?”

“I can.”

“Would you care to dance with me?”

“I thought you couldn’t carry a tune.”

“I can’t, but I can dance to a beat.  Jason, what should we dance to?”

Jason has all the perception Serena does with few of the hang-ups about saying what he thinks. He proved as much at dinner when he cut through Adrienne’s barbs about the food preparation to say that despite being overdone, Serena’s cooking was no more inedible than anything Adrienne had prepared herself on many occasions.  Were Bernie not already endeared by his tireless curiosity about her army service, his direct approach to short-circuiting family conflict would have won him a fan in her in short order.

As it is, his laser focus on herself and Serena leave little doubt that Jason has the right of Bernie’s intentions. There isn’t any way he couldn’t.  He raises a finger when he has an idea. He produces a 1964 record by Roy Orbison.

“I think you’ll both like this one, Auntie Serena.”

 _Pretty Woman_ pipes out of the record player. A song Bernie recognizes right away. From Serena’s ensuing belly laughter, she does as well.  They share a look that’s equal parts private joke and a mutual recognition of interest.  Bernie lets that knowledge settle comfortably in her mind.

Serena rubs her nephew’s elbow.  “Good choice, Jason, but how about we do the choosing this time, hmm?”

“I suppose, if you think you can make a better selection.”  He permits them to join him at the coalface and they spend another several minutes exclaiming over parental favorites.  His late mother, Serena’s half-sister Marjorie, had enjoyed Huey Lewis and the News. Her favorite Beatle was Paul McCartney.  She was raised by a school librarian and an American expatriate who subsisted on a constant diet of Bobby Darin and Chuck Berry. Those interests followed his mother all her life and give him comfort in her memory.

Bernie and Serena soon forget all thought of dancing as they fall further into the depths of youthful reminisces. Jason begged off when they drifted into genres other than those he preferred.  There’s still mulled cider to be had.

Serena pulls out a dusty crate from a forgotten corner.  “Oh, hello. These must be mine from when I was a teenager. Remember this?” She shows Bernie a beige cover featuring a bearded man and an ethereal woman Bernie faintly recognizes.  Give her a bisected bowel and she can think of three ways to repair it; faces out of context, less her métier. “Nothing?” Serena pouts. “It’s Fleetwood Mac! Stevie Nicks? I forgot all about this one. I must have run this copy through years ago. You remember Rumours, don’t you?”

“Remind me.” Serena sings a few bars that are almost entirely unrecognizable for all that her excitement is infectious. Bernie finds herself smiling. Serena’s pout transforms into a scowl at Bernie’s laughter.

“Shut up, I don’t see you volunteering.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I saw that look. I said I couldn’t sing.”

“You have other gifts,” she consoles her new friend.

“Damn right I do.” Serena’s subsequent wink startles a laugh out of Bernie.  Serena is a card, totally irrepressible.  Bernie wishes she had taken the chance to dance with her.  Her life sees too few of her like.

“Are the two of you finished?” Adrienne is leaning on her cane with her grandchildren hovering at either side of her. It’s clear both are still somewhat shaken up from the day’s earlier events.  Bernie sympathizes.  Her grandparents died when she was quite young, she never had to watch their health decline gradually over time.  She hopes she would have handled it with as much grace.

“I don’t know. Bernie, are we finished?”

“I’m happy to go on.” She doesn’t want to take sides in a family conflict, but if there’s a side to be taken, she’ll take Serena’s unquestionably.

“You heard her, we’re not finished.”

Adrienne narrows her eyes and suddenly the maternal connection stands in stark relief to their differences.  “Do we have to do this now?”

Serena maintains her composure despite Adrienne’s cantankerous prodding.  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, mother. You’re welcome to take yourself off to bed.”  The temperature in the room tangibly drops several degrees.  Serena continues flipping through the collection of records from her rebellious teen years, paying her mother no further attention.  Bernie ignores Adrienne’s glare of disapproval when it lands on her.

“I think I will.”

“Sleep well,” is all Serena says.  Bernie elects to hold her tongue while she still can.  Cantankerous she can tolerate, but Adrienne’s constant goading of Serena rouses her protective instincts like nothing else. Bernie Wolfe cannot abide a bully.

“Different without an audience, isn’t it?” Serena confides when they have the room and the record player to themselves. They’ve turned the volume down low enough for just the two of them to hear.

“Everything is.”

They go on that way for longer they ought to, cycling through rock n roll, pop, big band, and the blues. Whatever sounds familiar, they play. Bernie sings for Serena once—Bernie herself can carry a tune, actually—and Serena claps for her when she’s through.  That’s the moment it occurs to Bernie how much she wants to kiss Serena.  Brave women should be kissed, she thinks, and Serena is plenty brave to her mind.

“Are you tired?” Serena asks, worried, when Bernie’s gaze has grown distant and fixed too long.  Bernie shakes the enticing images from her mind. Serena in her arms. Serena’s lips on hers. _Serena_ _Serena Serena_ , crooned like some 1950s doo-wop ballad about teenage love at first sight.

“Getting there.”

She pats Bernie’s hand and rubs her thumbs over Bernie’s knuckles.  “Then, I let you go. You’re been a perfect guest.”

“Exactly what a girl likes to hear after meeting the family.”

“You’re a gem for putting up with us.” She and Bernie help each other off the ground with dueling complaints of aching backs. What either of them were thinking hunkering on the floor with all these 33s and LPs is anybody’s guess.  “Let me pack you some food to take home.  I don’t want to keep you out too late.”

“There’s no one waiting for me.” She shouldn’t say that, though it’s true.  Serena smiles at her, that wistful look again.

“There should be. Wait here, I’ll be quick. Turkey jerky might be popular among the local stray dogs, if nothing else.”

Once Serena’s left her sight, Bernie takes out her mobile to check the weather forecast.  She’s been anticipating snowfall since last night, that it would come at the worst possible moment is just her rotten luck. When her phone fails to give her anything but a low connectivity message, she peers out the nearest window to check the state of things for herself. It’s a world of white as far as the eye can see.

“Damn, the snow’s picked up.”

Serena comes bearing a Tesco shopping bag filled with Tupperware, enough to keep Bernie fed for week. She can’t remember the last time someone went to so much effort to look after her.  If she didn’t know better, she’d swear Serena was trying to impress her. She needn’t work any harder to do what she’s done already.

“I haven’t looked at the news since noon. Can you drive in this? Should you?” She’s rubbing Bernie arm as she asks, her brow crinkling in worry.

“I don’t have any choice, I have to get home.”

“Do you?” Serena backtracks to explain herself, “What I mean is, if there’s no one waiting to see you back, why don’t you stay the night and start out once the plow trucks are out in the morning? There’s no sense in risking your neck to go back to a cold apartment when you’re already in a comfy bolt hole.”

Bernie should get in her car and leave this instant. Staying this long was the wrong decision and getting closer to Serena is the totally out of line. That said, Serena is right about one thing: There’s nobody waiting at home for Bernie. She doesn’t have any pets. What friends she’s still in contact with after her medical discharge have already extended their season’s greetings via email or absurdly early text.  Alex is a finished chapter of her life with an unsatisfactory ending.  Her kids are gone. Serena and all her freely given affection is her only prospect, bright with promise yet bitterly sweet.  Bernie would be a fool to reject that out of some misplaced devotion to going home to an empty bed.

“Are you sure I won’t be putting you out?”

“We’re packed to the gills, but if you don’t mind the couch, I could make it up for you. It’s a comfortable couch,” Serena assures her, as though sensing her uncertainty. Bernie hopes it is or her back will kick up such a fuss.  “I’ve been known to nap there when I have the house to myself.” It’s difficult to imagine this house as anything but bustling. In the absence of all Serena’s relations, it would verge on cavernous. Empty. Lonely. Like they are.

Bernie covers Serena’s hand with hers.  “That would be lovely, thanks.” Although Serena’s surprise at Bernie’s easy acceptance is poorly disguised, she rallies and begins toting Bernie’s take-home parcels back to the kitchen for safekeeping.

“You’re sure your mother won’t mind?”

“My mother is as much a guest here as you are. If she minds, she’ll keep that opinion to herself.”

“I suppose it would allow me to keep an eye on her overnight as well...” 

“It would. See, it’ll all work out and you won’t end up a Wolfe-cicle decorating my garden.”  Serena’s glittering eyes flit over Bernie’s face. “Would be a shame to waste those cheekbones on a snow woman, wouldn’t it?”

“What was that?” Bernie asks, stepping closer to close the gap between them.  The more she glimpses Serena’s flirtatious nature, the more she wants to see.

“Nothing,” Serena quips with a hint of laughter in her voice.  “Just an observation.” Bernie knows better than to talk herself into close quarters with the object of her affection, knows it can’t lead anywhere good, but the year has been hard filled with too few evenings like this one. Serena opened her home to Bernie without demanding anything in return.  She’s been kind and generous as few are anymore, it seems.  Bernie can’t ignore that she’s lovely too.

The house settles under a heavy blanket of quiet after Bernie’s dinner leftovers are packed away for the morning after.  Perhaps it’s the winter darkness outside that has them all turning in, or it could be in deference to Bernie’s intrusive presence, but Adrienne and her grandchildren all return with polite (if icy in Adrienne’s case) wishes for her sleep well before retiring to bed.  Adrienne even goes so far as to thank Bernie for coming. She kisses Serena’s cheek and hugs her tight on her way to settle in.  Serena outshines the flickering Christmas tree in her affection for her mother.  Bernie wonders if, other than her own children, she’s ever loved a living soul that much.

Serena brings her lush bed pillows and blankets that smell of cedar and wood smoke. Together, they make a bed of sorts for her on the sofa facing the hearth where the fire is simmering low, not altogether necessary with the heating on all day.

“The firewood’s here, you’re welcome to add as much to the fireplace as you like, provided you don’t burn down the house. None of us as are spry as we used to be and I don’t like our odds of outrunning an explosion if the boiler goes.”

“I solemnly swear to practice adequate fire precautions to avoid burning down your house.”

“Greatly appreciated.” Serena’s smile fades to a look a self-conscious gratitude Bernie would so love to erase.  “Thank you for coming today to see my mother. Thank you for staying, and…the rest.”

“I didn’t do anything a friend wouldn’t do.” Their hands find each other on top of the covers.  Bernie tries not to enjoy how well they fit together, two surgeons’ fingers entangling true.

“You think of us as friends?” Serena asks.  Bernie can’t imagine someone of Serena’s personality lacking a social circle to entertain.  It’s obvious she thrives on the interaction, the give and take, the banter.  Bernie doesn’t quite, but she could learn to.

“I’d like to.”

“I’d like that as well.”  Serena’s elation is contagious, and before long they’re smiling at each other like a couple of teenagers on a rush of sugar and hormones. Bernie tells herself to keep level-headed. The problem is that Serena makes a level head the last thing she wants to keep.

 “Thank you for having me.”

“Easiest choice I’ve made today. You’re a lovely guest to have.”  Bernie has a feeling she can’t hope to define that tells her Serena means something else when she says ‘guest.’  Bernie would mean something else too.

“Goodnight, Serena.”  Serena watches her for the longest time. Bernie grows warm under her jumper, under Serena’s frank regard. The question of whether she’s been too obvious flits through her mind, leading her to review all her actions throughout their evening together. Does Serena know?

“Goodnight,” Serena says once she’s looked her fill.

Bernie is left to a cushy sofa, a roaring fire, and a rattling of drums that might just be her heart playing in her ears.  Though Serena’s closed the door to the living room to offer Bernie some semblance of privacy, Bernie admits to herself alone she’s never felt more exposed.

This house filled with Campbells, McKinnies, and Hayneses is lovely, dark, and safe as the night standing guard over Holby City.  Bernie would like to come here again.

Sleep comes slowly and treads lightly on Bernie Wolfe. Years of night work have ensured it and she’s learned to function on the minimum so it isn’t any trouble. But a new, temporary abode, however hospitable is a difficult one to find deep rest in. The creaking of the stairs rouses her in seconds.  She reaches for a weapon she isn’t holding and only upon rolling to the floor does she remember where she is.  Holby City, the house of Serena Campbell, Bernie’s new friend…or something.

“Bernie?” Serena calls into the dark from outside the door.

“I’m fine,” Bernie replies, voice muffled by the bedclothes she’s managed to become tangled with on her descent.  A new woman finally turns Bernie’s head and she loses all sense of self. A complete disaster.

Serena slips through the door to find Bernie in a state. She stops short. An eyebrow arches of its own volition.  “You’re on the floor.”

“You can take the soldier out of the field.” Still muffled. Slightly more shamefaced than earlier.

“How can I help?”

“Try not to laugh as I find a graceful way to extract myself from the blankets.”

“I won’t laugh.” Serena’s hands are gentle as she helps untangle Bernie’s legs while Bernie works at her arms. She’s free before long. Bernie flops back against the base of the couch, unaccountably exhausted from her exertions. Four tours and this is what stumps her. Her army mates can never hear about this.

“All right now?” Serena sets her hands on Bernie’s knees, the contact grounding Bernie in the present. She hadn’t realized she needed it.

“Horribly embarrassed but all in one piece.”’

Serena scrunches her nose. “Nothing for me to kiss better?”

“Chance would be a fine thing.”  The thought makes a home in Bernie.  _Kiss Me_ like a song she heard once.

“I’ve made hot chocolate since I couldn’t sleep either. Could I interest you in a cup?”

“I’d love one.”

Serena brings steaming cups of hot chocolate smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg. They split a bag of tiny marshmallows and splurge on whipped cream. Their secret, who’s to know?

Bernie’s regained enough of her equilibrium to ask one of the many questions plaguing her.  “Why did you invite me to stay? Really?” What she wants to hear, she doesn’t know. She wants _something,_ though. Something tangible. Real.

“Truly?”

Bernie nods. She wants honesty. She craves it from Serena of anyone, craves all of Serena beyond words or logic.

Serena makes several candid admissions. She doesn’t invite strangers home for dinner on Christmas. On Boxing Day, yes; on Christmas Eve, in an emergency, but Christmas is for family. Her exception for Bernie proves the rule. “You seemed adrift. I know the feeling. I thought maybe we could find solid ground together.” Once more like calls to like and for the first time since knocking on Serena’s door, Bernie knows precisely what she’ll do before she does it.

She kisses Serena.

Serena responds, with neither surprise nor repulsion, but with hunger, impatience. _Finally_ , her lips seem to say. _What took you so long?_

Bernie separates her lips from Serena’s with a delicious noise that only draws her back for more. 

“Is that what you meant?”

“Yes.”

Their mugs are blessedly empty, already forgotten, when they roll from the couch to the floor to no acclaim.  Serena and Bernie are drawn helplessly back to each other’s lips and no more is thought about them.

 Kissing Serena is the sum of Bernie’s imaginings and then some.  Serena is everywhere, hands and lips and teeth. Her body is at turns soft and firm, supple and full underneath her nightclothes.  Serena’s fingers strike out, seeking new land where her mouth has yet to tread.  Bernie follows her lead, makes it her mission to consume this woman with every sense. Soft, silken hair slides through her fingers, chocolate-sweet lips part to admit her tongue. Her scent shrouds Bernie’s senses like her touch.  Everything is Serena and anything that isn’t doesn’t matter.

They gradually shift position as their bodies complain, coming to lie entwined together over the couch cushions, Bernie on top of Serena. “Is this all right?”

“More than all right. Don’t stop now.”

She doesn’t.

Serena’s hands travel all over Bernie, mapping every inch of her she can reach like undiscovered country, untraveled and brand new. She leaves Bernie trembling and feverish, skin hungry and adoration starved.

“You want this, don’t you?” Serena asks.  “It isn’t only me?”

“Not only you.”  Bernie can’t wait to number Serena’s ribs with her tongue and count how many licks it takes to break her apart.

“Let me take you upstairs. I don’t want to stop and I don’t want an audience.”

Bernie nods her consent, unwilling to say anything that might break the spell Serena’s cast over them. She’ll think about tomorrow in the morning. She’ll slip away if she must.  Serena said it herself, Bernie needn’t treat Adrienne again. They could be strangers in the same town from here on.

When Serena begins relieving her of every article of clothing, murmuring wonderment against her scars and reverently kissing her every imperfection, Bernie learns better.  Serena Campbell won’t be stopped till she knows Bernie to the ground. They’ll never be strangers again.

* * *

 

Serena wakes to a blinding dawn. The snow has let up for now and the plows are running. The morning after has begun. She lazes under the covers, eyes near shut to savor the sensation of a warm body beside her own. As lovers go, Bernie Wolfe has most every man Serena’s been with beat and not a few of the women. More than that, she’s still here, patiently waiting.

She’s giving serious consideration to how she might reward her for it when Bernie’s cold nose sends a shock through Serena’s body. Right in behind her ear, no less. She shivers and rolls over to see a slightly guilty Bernie watching her from under the duvet.

“Did you stick your face out of the window or does it just come like that?”

“Sorry. Cold bits.”

“I’ll allow it.” Serena scoots closer. “If you let me warm you up.”

“Please do. I’ve not grown accustomed to winter again yet.”

“Poor soldier.  Let me take of care of that for you.”

The fingers of sunrise eventually reach all across Holby City and even through the dense blackout curtains Serena employs to protect her sleep. The day is here. Yesterday is done. Still Bernie remains.

Serena wiggles her toes in a hidden expression of contentment and works her nose into the hollow of Bernie’s neck.  She has a beautiful neck. All of her is beautiful and mighty and bare to Serena’s touch. Hers for the taking. And she will, she decides, for as long as Bernie will permit.

“Let me make you coffee?” she says, once she figures she’s spent enough time contemplating the many eye-catching beauty marks dotting Bernie’s skin. Making a to-kiss list and checking it twice. Bernie pauses her studied tracing of Serena’s shoulder and spine. Good thing, too, or Serena might have nodded off and then where would they be? Content, say the better angels she ignores.

“I’ll take coffee if you let me make you breakfast.”

“I love teamwork.”

They take turns showering and making the most of a bad job. Serena dresses in new clothes and Bernie in yesterday’s attire but for a jumper Serena lets her borrow. Wearing a coat in the house would be stifling whereas wearing nothing would be unbearable in the morning chill. Getting to see Bernie in her clothes is an improvement over either outcome.

They share a last kiss inside the sanctuary of Serena’s bedroom that lingers longer than any kiss should if it’s meant to be the last.

Just as they step out into the real world, Serena spies a smear of her vibrant lipstick on the corner of Bernie’s mouth.  “Missed a spot.”

“Did you?” Bernie rumbles. She doesn’t believe Serena at all. Smart woman.

“Maybe.”

Bernie backs her into the nearest blank wall and captures Serena’s lips for another kiss.  This kiss, their actual last kiss in all likelihood, is unplanned. It starts teasing and ends soft, like their lovemaking last night and again this morning.  Serena isn’t ready to say goodbye yet. She doesn’t often receive gifts like this.

 “Oh, I knew it! I knew you fancied her!” crows Elinor on the landing, still in bunny slippers and matching pajamas.  “Jason owes me twenty quid.” She dashes off to collect.

Serena buries her face in her hand with a sigh. This is the life she chose.  She glances up to find Bernie having a laugh at her expense.

“Oh, don’t laugh.”

“I can’t help it.” She shakes her hair out of her eyes. Her cheeks are bright pink and kissable.  “Your family, Serena. It’s wonderful, like you are.”

Wonderful, messy, and oftentimes cruel; they’re Serena’s own and every bit beloved. Someday, she hopes, it might become Bernie’s family too if she likes. _Not yet. Enjoy the moment. Live for today._

“Happy Boxing Day?”

Bernie leans down to steal a kiss Serena freely gives her. “Happy Boxing Day, Serena. Now, can we please get some coffee before I lapse into a decaffeinated coma?”

They descend the stairway together, side by side, fingers grazing with every step. Bernie extends a shy invitation for lunch in the New Year, perhaps, but only if Serena wants. _She does_. There’s talk of dinner somewhere someday soon. An Italian restaurant Bernie knows. Their agnolotti is to die for and their extensive wine list should entice her. Bernie’s words. She can’t know, though Serena suspects she’ll figure out soon, that Serena doesn’t need to be enticed. She’s already perfectly happy to go wherever Bernie happens to be.

This must be what it means to feel contentment.

Serena hopes to get used to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr [here](http://sententiousandbellicose.tumblr.com/post/181015747465/fic-near-to-us-once-more).


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